


I Shut My Eyes And All The World Drops Dead

by atrickstertype, Shayvaalski



Series: Arbitrary Blackness [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M, Psychological Warfare, Torture, Violence, implied sexual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 15:36:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atrickstertype/pseuds/atrickstertype, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski/pseuds/Shayvaalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once he sets his mind to it, Jim needs less than six hours to break John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Shut My Eyes And All The World Drops Dead

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this poem, and for the series as a whole, comes from Sylvia Plath's "Mad Girl's Love Song." All thanks to our fantastic betas, Jack and Lauren!

_A vulturous boredom pinned me in this tree.  
If he were I, he would do what I did.  
_ Sylvia Plath, "The Hanging Man"

  
Oh Johnny. Why don’t you just drink some drain cleaner and call it a day? Kisses!  
Text sent from That Bastard: 4:01 am  
  
Stop texting me, Jim.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 4:17 am  
  
But can’t you iiiiimagine poor Sherlock’s face when he walks through the door?   
Text sent from That Bastard: 4:22 am  
  
He’s not going to be walking anywhere. You sent him to his death.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 4:29 am  
  
Oh, you’re so cute. I can see why he keeps you around.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 4:31 am  
  
He didn’t keep me around. We were--friends. Why are you doing this? Haven’t you done enough?  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 4:33 am  
  
Sherlock’s not dead. He cheated. Then again, so did I.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 4:33 am  
Oh, and I don’t think I have, John. Not quite. Not yet.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 4:40 am  
  
What are you saying?  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 4:42 am  
  
Secrets secrets, Johnny boy. You’ll find out, soon enough.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 4:46 am  
  
Jim. Why are you doing this?  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 4:47 am  
  
Why would you say, Doctor Watson? What have your years of intensive therapy taught you about the human mind?  
Text sent from That Bastard: 4:55 am  
  
You’re sick.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 4:56 am  
  
Well done. Points off for lack of specificity, though. And for being OBVIOUS.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:00 am  
  
Leave me alone.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 5:01 am  
  
What shall we talk about, Johnny? Maybe your poor, sad, DRUNK sister out in the country?  
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:15 am  
  
Don’t you dare.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 5:15 am  
  
Oh, and you’ll stop me?   
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:17 am  
I wish you would try. That could be fun!  
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:18 am  
  
If I have to, I will burn you. Burn the heart out of you.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 5:22 am  
  
Oooh, stealing my catchphrase, are you?  
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:24 am  
  
You’ve stolen everything from me. Why shouldn’t I steal this?  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 5:26 am  
  
Have I? Well, you must admit, it’s made you a far more interesting person!   
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:30 am  
  
I will spend every hour looking for you, Jim. Every hour of every day.  
ext sent from The Good Doctor: 5:32 am  
  
I’d love that! You do that. You follow me ALL around the town.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:33 am  
Up and down.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:33 am  
Round and round.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:34 am  
And we’ll see if you can look in the mirror afterwards.  I  can.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:36 am  
  
We’ll see who walks away.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 5:37 am  
And if neither of us does, I can cope with that. So come have it out.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 5:45 am  
  
I thought YOU were coming to find ME!? Which one is it? The game has to have rules, Johnny.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:46 am  
  
Don’t call me that.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 5:46 am  
  
Even HE knew that. That LIAR.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:47 am  
  
And why bother? You’ll just break them as soon as they’re made.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 5:47 am  
And he NEVER lied.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 5:48 am  
  
Oh, he LIED, Johnny. He lied to everyone, but most of all to you.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:50 am  
I  bet he told you that he never FELT anything. Called himself a SOCIOPATH.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:51 am  
Well, it takes one to knooooow one, Johnny. And he wasn’t. He was BORING.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:52 am  
Still is, really.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:53 am  
  
He isn’t.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 5:53 am  
Wasn’t.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 5:54 am  
  
So DULL. So OBVIOUS.  
Text sent from That Bastard 5:55 am  
  
He was extraordinary, and you know it.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 5:56 am  
  
Oh, you’ll see, Johnny. You’ll see. And then I’ll ask you if he ever lied.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 5:59 am  
I can’t wait to see the look on your face!  
Text sent from That Bastard: 6:00 am  
  
See what?  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 6:01 am  
  
Oh, I already told you. Don’t be an idiot. I’m not telling you again.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 6:05 am  
  
Told me what?  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 6:06 am  
You aren’t serious.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 6:08 am  
  
OOOOH! Is that an IDEA flickering dully in the cavern of your mind?  
Text sent from That Bastard: 6:10 am  
I shall mark my calendar.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 6:11 am  
He LIED about the most important thing of all, Johnny. HE is the one responsible for your last three years. Not Me.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 6:14 am  
SURPRISE!   
Text sent from That Bastard: 6:15 am  
  
This is just some sort of awful joke.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 6:16 am  
  
You’re almost funny enough to keep! Too bad you’re not a little higher ranking.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 6:20 am  
  
You’re lying. You always lie.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 6:23 am  
  
Not this time, Johnny. This time, it’s nothing but the truth.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 6:25 am  
  
Then WHERE IS HE, damn you!   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 6:27 am  
  
Last I heard? Chasing down a little gift I left him in Cairo. He may be all the way to Budapest by now. Or maybe Paris. We’ll see, Johnny. We’ll see how long he chases and chases and doesn’t catch anything.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 6:32 am  
  
If that's true then someday he'll hunt you down. And then he'll come home. You can't keep him running in circles forever.          
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 6:35 am  
If he’s alive, he’ll come home.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 6:41 am  
  
Oh, he could come home any time he likes. He CHOOSES not to.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 6:42 am  
I called my boys off a year and a half ago, Johnny.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 6:51 am  
They were BORED.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 6:52 am  
And people who are bored in our business start shooting things.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 6:53 am  
  
Then why are you texting me again? Didn’t this lose its fun, a year ago? Why now?  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 6:55 am  
  
Oh, because! Because he’s SO TIRED Johnny! And hurt. Oh, he’s hurt so badly.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 6:58 am  
  
Tell me how to get to him.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 6:58 am  
  
Why?  
Text sent from That Bastard: 7:05 am  
Give me a good reason. CONVINCE me.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 7:06 am  
  
Because we’re neither of us any fun to you dead.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 7:11 am  
  
Oh, but you don’t need to be TOGETHER. You’re so much more fun, rotting away in your little cells. Always ALMOST ready to come after me.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 7:16 am  
I wonder if someday you’ll do it.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 7:18 am  
Besides, when it comes down to it and you DO it’s so DISAPPOINTING! This is much better.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 7:23 am  
  
—and what if I end the game, Jim?  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 7:29 am  
  
This isn’t a game you can just walk away from, John. No folding these cards.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 7:33 am  
  
It’s not like it hasn’t been on my mind, these years. My building’s as high as Bart’s, and I’m not clever enough to stop a fall.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 7:36 am  
And do think—honestly think, no matter what lies you tell me or the web you weave—that Sherlock wouldn’t follow after?  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 7:37 am  
  
Oh, yes I do. YES I DO. Because you aren’t NEARLY as important to him. He has a LIFE! He has ADVENTURES! He has ME!   
Text sent from That Bastard: 7:38 am  
  
You don’t know the first thing about us.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 7:39 am  
If I fell, he would fall with me. And maybe, technically, he’d be alive, but he’d be of no use to you anymore.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 7:42 am  
  
OOOOH. You’re FUN! You’d kill him to spite me?  
Text sent from That Bastard: 7:44 am  
I don’t think you would. But you’re welcome to try.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 7:47 am  
  
What do I have to SAY to you to make this stop, Jim? What do I have to do?   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 7:49 am  
  
Nothin’ you can saaay, nothin’ you can doooo, to keep mee from comin back to youuuuu!  
Text sent from That Bastard: 7:53 am  
Sounds like a song, doesn’t it?   
Text sent from That Bastard: 7:54 am  
Our own little duet.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 7:54 am  
I lied you know. He’s dead. Boom, crunch, frontal lobe ALL OVER the sidewalk.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 7:57 am  
You saw it. You were there.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 7:58 am  
  
I’d hit my head. They tell me I had a concussion. I don’t know what I saw.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 7:59 am  
And he’s  Sherlock . He could fake a death, easy as breathing.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 8:00 am  
  
You didn’t see it? All that blood, those blue eyes looking SO EMPTY. Not that it proves anything.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 8:05 am  
  
You managed it, and you’re nothing compared to him.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 8:05 am   
  
Oh, that hurt. That one really BURNED.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 8:07 am  
  
You probably had  help . You’re useless without your web.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 8:08 am  
  
No help here, Johnny. Pulled my own trigger and everything, like a big boy. Didn’t need a herd of passerby or a bike messenger or ANYTHING.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 8:10 am  
If, of course, anything I’m telling you is true.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 8:11 am  
  
Something of it must be.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 8:12 am  
You know that someday you’ll turn around and there I’ll be. Waiting.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 8:15 am  
  
I look forward to it! I want to see what you look like, all growed up and just like Papa Jim.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 8:17 am  
  
If I have to become like you, then I have to—anything to stop you, anything to stop this, to get you out of my head and my life.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 8:19 am  
  
I’m in your head? Johnny, I’m blushing.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 8:21 am  
And then think when HE sees you, just like me. Oh, how his little heart will break!  
Text sent from That Bastard: 8:22 am  
  
He told me, once, that you and he were the same. I think it would take more to break his heart than you give him credit.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 8:25 am  
  
Oh, you don’t know me very well at ALL. Yet.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 8:28 am  
Come play, Johnny. Your boyfriend has gotten so dreadfully dull.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 8:30 am  
  
…I’m on my way, Jimmy-boy.  
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 8:39 am  
I’m on my way.   
Text sent from The Good Doctor: 8:39 am  
  
Ten four, good buddy. Over and out.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 8:43 am

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

      John gets ready like he is getting ready for war, digging out the body armor, digging out the gun. His hands are shaking and his lips have thinned out the way they used to just before a battle, but he doesn’t care. He can’t care. This has to be the end of things.  
     He’s exhausted. The first text had come in at four in the morning, and it’s now well past dawn, sun slanting in the front windows as he tugs a sweater on over a bulletproof vest. He doubts that Moriarty is far away. That wouldn’t be like him at all, even though Mycroft swears he’s nowhere to be found and Greg just looks at him and shakes his head.  
     John tucks a gun through the belt of his pants, and says, to the air (because he knows with a sudden certainty that Jim can hear him, can see him, knows exactly what he’s doing), “Run, Moriarty. While you can.”

 

     Jim runs a comb through his hair, checking the look in the mirror.  “Have to be ready for this one,” he says to the figure behind him. “It’s so much  _bigger_ than the last time. Not just child’s telly anymore, oh no.” The mix of pomade and Westwood is very dapper, if he does say so himself. He turns with a grin. “Wouldn’t you agree? Oh, never mind. I know you would. No need to say anything.”  
     The thought makes him laugh, well, giggle, and he walks over to the camera. Live feeds are so  _annoying_ , but there’s no arguing with their effect. He checks the feeds from the other end (rolling, good) and then flips the camera on, tapping on the lens with a fingernail. It’s just a few buttons to press, and then, in the main room of 221b, the television turns on.  
    “Johnny? Oh Joooohnny! Can you come out to play?”

 

      John, halfway out the door, freezes. He can’t remember the last time the television was on (oh yes you can, says a voice in his head, remember Sherlock sitting and --- he cuts it off, right then and there). He turns on one heel, crouches in front of the television, on which a picture is coming into focus. 

 

     “Hiii!” Jim waggles his fingers at the screen, watching John’s face as the telly turns on.  “Oooh, are those all for me? Body armor and... John, you  _shouldn’t_ have.” He grins, taking in John’s face. The poor man looks like he’s about to  _explode_. Not much time to talk, then.  
     “Listen, I don’t want to put off the party, but I have a friend here who wants to say ‘hi.’” He moves away from the camera just a bit, letting the figure behind him come into view. “Well, they’d like to, but they’re a bit... tied up.” He wrinkles his nose in amused distaste. “Cheesy, I know, but so applicable, don’t you think?” 

 

     John, hunkering down, is just about to say, “Puns, Jim? Really?” But his voice fades on the second syllable because there is something familiar about the dark shape. His heart clutches in his chest and he thinks,  _Sherlock_. But there’s not a mark on Jim, and Sherlock, despite his tendency towards delicate hands and a face that looks so much like porcelain you could believe it would shatter, has a hell of a punch.  
     Harry, however, does not, and he remembers, with a shock so great it is physical, what Moriarty said hours ago. She doesn’t live that far away, after all, and he knows Jim has men he sends to do the heavy lifting and driving and kidnapping. He remembers the pool, the dots of light, Sherlock’s hands against his chest.  
     Without thinking he puts his hands to the screen and says with a rage he does not recognize, “Don’t you  _touch_ her, Moriarty.”

 

     Oh, John is  _livid_ , his buttons are so  _easy_ to push. This would almost be boring, if Jim didn’t want to see the end result so badly. As it is, he’s amused by how quickly everything is going along. He might even have to drop a few hints to Sherlock sooner than anticipated. After all, that’s the whole point. The Virgin can’t miss out on all the fun.  
     The thought makes him grin even wider. “Oh don’t worry, Johnny. I’ll be a perfect gentleman. If she ever wants me to stop, all she has to do is say so.” Jim rolls his eyes and shrugs. “Of course, if she doesn’t... well, what goes on behind closed doors is  our business, doctor, not yours. Unless you want to watch.” He licks his lips suggestively, glancing over his shoulder at Harry and then back to the screens.

 

     Harry. Harry. Harry. The name pounds through him, ringing in his ears like blood when he stands up too fast. John doesn't like his sister, doesn't understand her, doesn't enjoy spending time with her or talking on the phone or watching her get tired of this week's girlfriend. He hates the way she laughs at him about Sherlock and rolls her eyes when he talks about the army.  
     But he loves her, and she is sitting in that chair with Moriarty ever so delicately touching her shoulder, and he cannot bear it.  
     When the screen smashes it surprises all of them. John stands up, glass bright around his feet, and brushes shards off the sleeve of his sweater.  
     "Right," he says, and squares his shoulders. "I'll come to you, Jimmy."  
     When he goes out the door he doesn't bother with his cane.

 

      Jim blinks, pleasure and surprise mingling nicely, when John puts his fist through the telly. In a few minutes the good doctor will realise he’s bleeding, but the odds are that he’ll be too focused to actually care. There must be some kind of stupidity in the walls of Baker Street. Not a speck of self-preservation to be seen in any of them.  
     Oh, it’s wonderful.  
     Harry moans quietly, and Jim redirects his attention from the monitors. “Did you hear that, Sweet Thing? Your brother’s coming for you. I might even let him find you, if he’s very entertaining about it.” He lifts the bag from her head, examining the plain face and drug-dull eyes, now too puffy from tears and a couple of blows. “You’ll be my first gift for dear Johnny. Now... How should I wrap you?” 

 

Johnny, look at what I found!   
Attachment:  [ http://i01.i.aliimg.com/img/pb/583/700/305/305700583_567.jpg ](http://i01.i.aliimg.com/img/pb/583/700/305/305700583_567.jpg)   
         Text sent from That Bastard: 9:15 am

 

      John is out in the street before he realizes that his hand is beginning to hurt. He flexes it without thinking, and the thin streaks of broken-glass pain race up halfway to his shoulder. There is a heartbeat or two where he thinks about ignoring it, but he’s a doctor, and he sits down on the nearest door-sill to look at before he goes any further.  
     The glass isn’t in deep, and there’s not a lot of it, and he’s halfway through pulling out the second-to-last shard with hands that have pulled glass and fragments of mortar out of so many wounds when his phone goes off. Almost, he doesn’t check it.  
     But then he does.  
     John’s jaw works as he tries to control the bile that rises into his throat. He knows what that is. He’s used it, but never to hurt, only to heal. He thinks of his sister and the lines of her face, and then looks up.  
     Across the street, on a slightly-bent iron post, is a few strands of surgical thread, tied in a bow, like a gift.  
     Although he knows she probably won’t receive it, he scrolls down to his sister’s number in his phone. 

  
Harry. I’m coming. J.  
Text sent from Brother Dear: 9:16 am  
  
Oh, John, help me! He’s doing such terrible things!  
Text sent from Harriet: 9:17 am  
  
Have you heard the song “World War Three Is Coming?” Not my usual style, but I do love the band.  
Text sent from That Bastard: 9:32 am  
I’m making the clues very easy for you, John. Can’t expect too much.   
Text sent from That Bastard: 9:45 am

    Hard at work, Jim pauses once or twice to send out a new text. Harry’s passed out again, which is making things a bit dull, but the piece is shaping up nicely.  Surgery’s not Jim’s usual medium, but a command performance for a master is enough to make him careful with his work, to make it  _almost_ fun. It’s so hard to find an appreciative audience, it really is.  Really, the whole thing is tedious stuff, the kind of thing that horror movies use, but it’s appropriate for this situation.  
    And Johnny will appreciate the effort.

 

    John twitches every time a text comes in, but he’s stopped looking at them. Instead he is going up and down the street, methodically, in either direction, looking out for another bow made of thread. He doesn’t see one, and he’s just about to cross the line from frenetic into frantic when he sees, on a sign, a gently-curving needle dangling from a single, almost invisible line of silk. He snaps the thread, feeling another line of delicate pain against his finger, one more thing for him to ignore.   
    John knows he is going the right way.

 

    Eventually Harry’s eyes open and she almost struggles before she realizes what has happened and goes absolutely still. Which is a good thing, really. Can’t have her doing any extra damage.  Jim puts a finger on her nose. “Shhhh, he’ll be here soon, Sweet Thing. That’s what she called you, isn’t it? Clara? Sweet Thing... but you’re not. Never will be again, poor little you, isn’t it just tragic? But John’s almost here, don’t you worry. Johnny boy will save you. You’ll just have the memories. And the scars, of course.”  
    Jim leans in and plants a kiss on the ridges of Harry’s lips, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Nobody will do that, now. Nobody but me, not ever again.  And I’m leaving, Sweet Thing. Leaving you alone!”  
    He changes clothes and walks out of the warehouse, pausing to wave goodbye over his shoulder.  “Toodles!”

 

    By the time he hears the clock strike ten John has a double handful of needles. He can’t just leave them hanging from things; it’s a miracle no one has gotten one in the eye. Probably someone has. Moriarty wouldn’t care. The gun still feels cold against the small of his back; he’s grown unused to carrying it, to its weight and shape and heft, and the vest is making him sweat. Some part of him wonders if this isn’t a nightmare, surreal and painful but with an end in sight; if he will wake up in bed gasping like he has a hundred times since Sherlock died.  
    He does not wake up. It is not a dream.   
    When he reaches the door of the warehouse, fifteen minutes later, he stops. Scratched into the metal is a heart, the letters “JM” carefully carved into the center. John tries the handle; the door isn’t even locked. But he hesitates, before walking in; this is Moriarty, and everything’s a trap.

 

      Jim is long gone when John reaches the warehouse, but he can see everything on his monitors. The door opens perfectly, and the morning light shines in directly on Harry, spotlighting the way she’s tied to the chair. From that distance it’s almost impossible to see the thin, delicate sutures closing her mouth and eyes. “What next, Johnny?” he asks, watching the man’s reactions. “What does that do for you?”

 

    John throws up. He doesn’t mean to but he can’t help it, and even as he grabs the doorframe for support he is angry at Moriarty about this, about how it is now another fifteen seconds before he can stop heaving and another ten before he can stand upright and that is almost half a minute more that  _Harry has to sit in that chair_.  
    He gets a hold of himself (another twenty seconds, oh  god, he cannot do this, and John thinks he might be sick again) and moves to Harry. She is absolutely still, and he can hear the tiny whimpers of her breathing.  
    “Harry,” John says, and puts a hand on her shoulder. She shudders, hard, and tries to look at him, and his gut lurches. He doesn’t have any scissors, so the Swiss army knife has to do, blade almost too dull to do anything and why hadn’t he  _sharpened_ it, damn everything straight to hell.   
    It only takes a few minutes, even so. When she can stand, John calls Molly. He doesn’t really know what else to do, and the morgue is just downstairs from the clinic. “You have to--Molly. Please. There’s a warehouse, near Bedford Square, and my sister’s been kidnapped, she’s hurt, I don’t dare call an ambulance. If you can just bring--no. A pair of surgery scissors, and something for pain, a local, anything you can take, we should be able to handle it for now.”  
    John hangs up. His sister will not let go of his hand, and so they stand there, together, until a car pulls up outside. 

 

    The  vomiting is good, not at all what he would have expected, but the rest is just boring. Jim flips channels while he waits, plans out a quick jewel heist in Vegas, dabbles with a new encryption that’s just come out. Ideally, he’d be working out this plan still, making sure things are all clicking into place, but John is  _boring_. He’s a simple little man with simple little problems, and all this is going to take are  a few big broad strokes and it’s too  easy and not at all worth his time. If it wasn’t for Sherlock, he’d blow them all up right now, he really would. At least there’s some careful timing to be done, which makes this ever so slightly less dull.   
    When the car pulls up, Jim sends out another text.   
  
Oh, dearie me. Wherever has Mrs. Hudson wandered off to now?  
Text sent from That Bastard: 10:47 am  
  
    She’s at the store of course, just like every Wednesday, but somehow Jim doesn’t think that will be John’s first conclusion.

 

      He stays with Harry until the stitches are all picked out. It takes almost an hour, going as carefully as he can. Moriarty is a brilliant man, if twisted, but he's not a surgeon and the thread is not drawn as tight as John would have drawn it. There is blood everywhere, but blood ceased to bother him many years ago, and it is surprisingly easy to pretend the woman on whom he works is not his sister. Molly doesn't say anything until he puts his scissors down and stretches out his hands. She has been chewing on the insides of her lips, John notices, so that they are almost as ragged as Harry's.  
     "D'you want me to call the police?" she asks, tucking her hands beneath her arms. He's pulled her away from someone, he thinks; that's never her shirt, and last night's eyeshadow is still streaked across her lids.  
     John wonders distantly when he started noticing these things.  
     "An ambulance, yes. I don’t know how much more they can do about the stitches, but I think--” he swallows, hard. There had been bruises, too, and at least three broken fingers, and, John suspects, more injuries that he couldn’t see. “--I rather think she’s lost a lot of blood, and she’ll need to be seen to to make sure there’s no infection--Listen, Molly, can she stay with you? After? My flat's not safe."  
     He is clutching his phone in his pocket, fighting the temptation to look at the message that has been buzzing reminders at him for forty minutes now. 

 

    Jim makes a disappointed face at the monitor. John’s being stoic and medical and horribly dull, just a little soldier. On the other hand, Molly’s looking rather mussed, and he gets a moment of amusement from imagining his replacement. From the shirt he’ll be about six foot, maybe as much as six two, some sort of scientist... nothing to hold his interest. Besides, Molly’s only important because she’s Sherlock’s little contact, and has a way to contact him. She’ll have done that as soon as John called her, which means that Jim finally has a timeline.   
    The thought makes him grin. “Let’s see,” he says to the screen. “You’ll have told him something was wrong, but John wasn’t in danger. Not enough to bring him back, then, not yet. But now, ooh, when you tell him what’s happened... Now he’ll be on the first plane his brother can get him. Paris to London, that’s two hours by plane, Johnny boy. Two hours to see you break, before your dear sweet Sherlock can come and save you. I think I can make that work.”  
    Jim flips the phone over from video to his contact list and dials. The contact picks up at the first ring, like all good little mooks should. “Everything set at Baker Street? Wonderful. Make sure to leave it where he’ll see it when he walks in. No, probably at the bottom of the stairs. Can’t make it too hard for our good doctor. Then make sure you detain the old bag long enough for him to get home, he’s being stubborn. Oh, I don’t care. Be creative. Mmm hmm, you too. Bye bye, Sebby.”

 

    John is outside before he pulls the cellphone out of his pocket, and then once he looks at it he is  _running_.  Mrs. Hudson had been there when he left, but that didn’t mean anything; she stills thinks Moriarty is lying in a shallow grave somewhere, rotting, and serve him right, doesn’t it, John? She’s such an easy target, with her hip, and her age, and it would take very little or effort to make sure she didn’t make any trouble.   
    Jim won’t have left her at the flat, won’t have done anything there because Lestrade still sometimes looks in to make sure John’s doing something other than sitting and staring and he’s sure Jim knows that, but he doesn’t know where else to start. There has to be something, some clue, but then he curses as he runs because he probably won’t see it.   
    Baker Street is quiet, no sign of struggle, the door not even forced. Of course, John thinks with a mix of panic and exasperation, it’s not like the door is ever  _locked_. Mrs. Hudson’s rooms are empty, the door locked, her coat gone. Would Moriarty--or whatever minion did this--really have stopped to let her take her coat?   
    He is just about to charge up his own stairs when his foot hits something, and he glances down. For a minute John thinks he’s dropped his phone, but then he touches his pocket, and it’s still there. He crouches down, not touching it--the mobile is identical to his. 

 

    “Oh, come on, Johnny.” Jim says to the screen, wishing there was a two-way set up in the hallway as well. “It’s not dangerous! Someone just dropped it by mistake when they replaced your telly! It’s a  _clue_.”   
    He wonders exactly how much Johnny’s little brain is picking up. He hasn’t been upstairs yet, hasn’t seen the brand new television with a red bow and an obvious booby trap, so he can’t have put everything together. The phone’s at least a year old, with scuff marks on it and at least three major scratches on the screen from where it’s been carried in a pocket next to a set of keys. Even Johnny has to see that it’s been used quite a bit. And inside, the important information of one Colonel Sebastian Moran (dishonorably discharged), featuring a long history of texts and calls to and from a number that John really can’t mistake after today.  _Embarrassing_ and  _unprofessional_ texts, always followed by an order to erase the message history. Which, of course, Seb has ignored.   
    “You want to burn my heart out, Johnny? Really? Come and try.”

 

    John uses the sleeve of his sweater to pick the phone up. It really is remarkably like his, right down to looking like it’s been dropped several times on an unyielding surface, but when he thumbs the ‘home’ button, the background is different, the icons in an unfamiliar pattern. Straightening up and starting up the stairs, he begins to scroll through the contacts, looking for clues.  _Boss. Fucking Sherlock. Home. Irene. John Clay. Watson._   
Without really looking, John unlocks his door, steps inside the flat. The mobile’s message history is practically full, but he leaves that for the moment; he’s beginning to have part of an idea about who the phone belongs to, and he kicks himself for never bothering to research Moriarty’s web. On an instinct, he thumbs open the ‘Home’ contact; as he’d hoped, there was a note under the section usually reserved for entering pertinent details about who the contact, reading,  _If found, please return to Col. Sebastian Moran, 885 Down Street, London_.  
    The number listed under ‘Boss’ is Moriarty’s.  
    When John looks up, not sure whether or not to pleased, he notices that there is a new television in his sitting room, top of the line, with a great big red bow around it and a tripwire strung from wall to wall in front of it.   
    “Well that explains where you came from,” he tells the phone, and then, to the air, “Do you  _really_ think I’m stupid enough to trip over that?”  
    John gives the television a wide berth, going into the kitchen where the light is better and pulling up the phone’s message history. Almost every text is from Moriarty, and there are hundreds of them going back months, but John only has to read two or three before he says, “Oh, my god” and drops the phone. Whoever Moran is, John now knows far too much about his private life, and Jim’s particularly intimate habits. 

 

    “Ooh, I don’t think you are, Johnny, not quite,” Jim answers, even though John can’t hear. Yet. That would be far too obvious at this point, especially now that it looks like Johnny’s taking the bait. “But I think you’re  _empathetic_ , which is just as good.” He sits back, flipping through the different feeds as John moves (cameras have been noticeably easier to hide in that flat lately) and watching him figure things out. All that thinking looks downright painful on the doctor’s flat face, and Jim can’t help but sneer. “Come on. You can do it. So many clues, so little time.”  
    When John actually drops the phone, Jim laughs out loud. “Ooooh, squeamish to a fault! You haven’t even gotten to the  _interesting_ ones yet! The kill orders, the strategy discussions, you’re just scratching the surface, Johnny!” He shakes his head and grins. “Oh well. You’ll have your chance.”  
    Time to make this a little more interesting. He flips the feed over to a larger monitor and picks up his phone.  
  
Abort. Johnny home earlier than expected. Pick up the bag and come home.  
Text sent from Boss: 12:25 pm

 

    It’s a kind of perverse fascination that makes him pick the phone back up. Realistically, Harry has sent him texts not that much less informative than the ones he’s reading, because for some reason she keeps dating women whose name start with J and when she’s been drinking things rarely go well, but there is something sick about these there is not about Harry’s. Moriarty is not the kind of person who has relationships based on normal things, and it shows.   
    John begins to skim the messages, skipping any with the words  _fuck_ or  _daddy_ or  _hard_ in them because he thinks, with some degree of humor, that this will make him throw up again. There’s other things, mixed in; detailed instructions on who to kill, and when, and how, enough information to resolve half the unsolved crimes in London, and always, repeating,  _Memorize and delete_.  There are addresses, and there are names.   
    He suspects, if he looked far enough back, he would see Sherlock’s.   
    John shuts the phone, taps it on the table. If he can find Sebastian Moran, he thinks, he is sure he can find Jim. The phone chimes, as if to agree with him, a surprisingly friendly noise.  _Abort--pick up the bag--come home_.  So Moriarty still thinks the phone in his hands is his own, and doesn’t know that Sebastian--there’d been an address under Home, and the other texts seem to imply (oh god) that they lived together.   
    He hesitates, and then he types out a message.   
  
Already got it, Boss. Leaving now.  
Text sent from Sebby Baby: 12:32 pm

 

     Jim’s phone starts singing  _Grenade_ and he grins, reading John’s message. “You little liar.” He sends a quick  _bring her back_ to Seb’s burner phone and allows himself a moment to gloat. It had been  _work_ getting Seb’s phone to that state--bribes and threats had gone to people in police labs and phone companies, always accompanied by the same requests. Lose these records. Don’t follow this lead. (And, once, give me back my damn phone.) Still, for something that he had done on a whim at first, the payoff was well worth it.  
    Enough with the bait, then, now to hook the bastard. It’s a couple of minutes before Seb shows up at the front door of Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson, but when he does Jim nearly dies laughing. He’s carrying her groceries, it’s too fucking  _precious_ and Jim doesn’t miss the discreet finger Seb flips in the general direction of the hall camera.  Very cute, but they’ll have to talk about it later.  
    Meanwhile, Seb’s found some reason to get Mrs. Hudson to take him upstairs, and Jim can’t help but smile. It’s a dangerous little game, especially if Johnny’s found the phone’s pictures, but he’s pretty sure it’s one Seb can win. And it’ll be  _very_ interesting.

 

      John is beginning to consider the consequences of looking at the full picture folder on the mobile, unable to decide if it would make Moriarty more frightening or a good deal less. He suspects at least some of them will be horrifying, but on the other hand, he’ll hopefully be able to identify Sebastain Moran once he gets through them. He’s a doctor, he reminds himself, and related to Harriet Watson. He’s probably seen worse.  
     It’s not exactly what he expects.  
     The first picture is unmistakably Jim, and it’s been taken by someone who clearly cares about him; the angle is gentle, taken from someone’s lap or chest when they are lying down, and in it Jim is reading. John has never seen him look so still. The next is a lake, somewhere out of London; the next three are of men he doesn’t recognize, taken from a moving car, a high window, a train.  
     The fifth is someone he can only assume is Seb. It’s not a perfect picture, being somewhat out of focus, but he can tell that the man is blond, with long clean scars across his chest and cheek and a tiger tattoo.  
     He also knows entirely too much about what Jim enjoys doing to him, but that’s a different story and he  _really_ doesn’t want to think about it.  
     Downstairs, the door slams, and John is on his feet. There are voices, in the downstairs hallway, and there are footsteps on the steps to his room.

 

      The sound picks up just outside the flat, and Jim is delighted to see Mrs. Hudson is chatting with Seb as if there was nothing wrong in the world. The old bat certainly has a thing for hired killers, Jim thinks to himself. She got on with the Russian too. Maybe they could all come round and have tea sometime, and wouldn’t that be just the way to cap off festivities?  
     “Just wanted to apologize again for knocking you over, Mrs. H,” Seb says, playing the gentleman like he was born to it. Well, Jim remembers, technically he was. It’s simply not a role the man returns to very often.  
     “Nonsense, dear.” Mrs. Hudson replies, putting a hand on his arm. “Thank you for helping me carry all these things. Bit too heavy for me. You know, I don’t usually shop for my tenants, but he’s been having such a rough patch lately...”  
     Jim rolls his eyes at what is just about the cheapest cover story he has ever heard, but tries not to let it bother him. After all, it only has to hold together for about another thirty seconds.  
     Mrs. Hudson lets herself in, calling out. “John? I’ve brought you some things.”

 

      “Mrs. Hudson? Are you alright?” He meets her at the door, taking the bags from her hands, and she looks at him like he’s gone crazy. Crazier. “Of course, dear. Had a bit of a fall, but this nice young man helped me right up. Even carried my shopping home, look.” She smiles at him, gestures behind her.  
     The man on the stairs behind her is tall, with blond hair short on the sides and long on top, and a pale white scar across one cheek. He looks very little like his picture, but when he looks up at John with eyes that are the gray-green color of the sky before a killing storm, John knows exactly who he is.  
     It is everything he can do not to kill him right then and there. 

 

     Jim waits for all of four seconds (he counts them) after Seb walks into the apartment  and sees dear Johnny to flick on the TV in the living room and howl into his camera, “Seb, get  _out_!” He fills his voice with all of those funny little inflections people use to mean fear, and anguish, and love, and undercuts them with anger and oh, he’s good, he’s  _convincing_. Mrs. Hudson jumps where she stands and Seb goes stone-cold military. Then, because it’s  _Seb_ , he winks at dear Johnny boy, throws the groceries in the general direction of the tripline, and  _bolts_.  
     Jim holds his look of horror, but inside he’s practically giggling. 

 

     Jim howls from the television and Sebastian leaps for the door, flinging his armload of shopping bags into the flat as he goes. Without thinking, John is running after him, heedless of the apples rolling inexorably towards the tripwire, because something about the way Moriarty’s voice sounded has touched an answering chord in him. There was something of that in Sherlock, the day John had knelt on Irene Adler’s floor with a gun against his neck. It is the tone that says,  _if you die, I am not sure what I will do_.  
     Jim Moriarty does not want to lose Sebastian Moran, and there, right then and there, is when John knows what he will do. He almost falls down the stairs, trying to keep Sebastian in view, knowing Jim can see him, can see the gun he is trying to fumble out of his waistband, and wonders what he’ll do. 

 

      The tripwire is made of the same medical thread that Jim used on Harry and strung fairly loose, so it can take some abuse. Still, Jim thinks idly as the third apple rolls closer, Seb really was pushing his luck. As it is, poor Mrs. Hudson may not live to see the end of this chase.  
     Oh well. It’s almost a pity, but he won’t mourn her if it means he can see that look on Johnny’s face again. They’re not even out the door when it hits, a sort of mad-eyed intensity that’s all  sorts of familiar, and my, the boy really does have potential. He’s already so close to the line, and with an hour and a half to go, no less! Jim grins and flicks off the feed to 221b. In a moment he has activated the program that gives him control of all the cameras in a five block radius of Baker Street. Something tells him this chase won’t last much longer than that, and watching it is well worth tripping off the Iceman’s alarms.  
     Seb has three orders, after all. Only three. One: Do your damndest to get away from Watson, then contact me. Two: Do not so much as bruise Watson himself. Three: Don’t die. Really, Jim could go either way on three. Johnny has shot people before, and it’s not out of the question that he might get a lucky shot on Seb. If Jim had his way, it’d get a little more...  _personal_ , but that’s up to the boys.  
     It is, he thinks, a little like a horserace. His money’s on Seb, of course, already vaulting the first flight of stairs and nearly out the door, but  _ooh_ ,  Johnny has his gun out. They’re going to be running through a residential street, and a  very  crowded one, at that, but the thought doesn’t even seem to enter Johnny’s head. He really is  _adorable_.  
     But he won’t buy it if this is too easy. Jim sends a couple of quick texts, and his obstacles start shifting into place.  
    “Run for it, Johnny. What are you going to  _do_? ”

 

     The street shakes around him and there is a dull, muffled  _whump_ from 221b just as John reaches the front steps, and the shock waves tosses him to the ground, sends the gun flying out of his hand. No time to look back. No time to pick up the gun, even, because there’s Sebastian’s lean back vanishing around a corner, and he pushes down the part of him that is screaming,  _Let it go, Watson, turn around, Mrs. Hudson, the flat, Sherlock’s room--_  
     Moriarty’s heart is fleeing through the street and nothing else can matter.  
     John scrambles to his feet, running almost before he’s upright, stumbling against Saturday-afternoon shoppers and tourists, looking for something he can grab to hit Sebastian, to throw at him. There’s a construction site, not far away, and he snatches a length of iron rebar up as he passes, ignoring the men’s yells as he pelts after the tall blond man.  _Left_ , says the part of him that is still calm, the part that sounds a little like Sherlock,  _Left and you can cut him off at the end of that alley._  
     John veers, obeying blindly, and then there is Sebastian, fifteen feet away. 

 

     Oooh, that’s it for the old bag, then. That kind of charge isn’t built for doing a lot of damage to a building, but it turns people into so much damp confetti. Probably for the best, anyway. Now Johnny will have to deal with all that  _guilt_. After all, he could have  _stopped_ it. Jim grins, twirling around in his chair and bobbing his head to the music. Pitch perfect, the whole thing. He couldn’t have hoped for better.  
     Meanwhile, on the monitors, the chase is heating up. Seb, seeing John at the end of the alley, of course goes for his sidearm. But they’d _discussed_ that and Jim can see him pull up short, almost snarling with rage. No knives, no guns, no hurting Johnny before he can get a few licks in.  
     It’s a good thing Sebby’s so accustomed to pain.  
     The only thing that stops John’s swing is the sudden arrival of Jim’s first set of obstacles, a poorly-trained pair of brothers from Canary Wharf. They’re not meant to do any more than slow Johnny down, really, and Jim isn’t surprised when the smaller one tries to grab the rebar and instead takes it straight to his face, crushing something important right above the eye sockets. And oh, _look at that_ , they’ve gotten uniforms from somewhere. He can’t quite see the insignia from the security feed next door, but his imagination fills in the spurt of various liquids that must be decorating it right about now.

 

     Before he can do much more than take a handful of running steps towards Sebastian, there are two men, obviously related, converging on him from a sidestreet he didn’t see. The first one goes for John and to his distant surprise, old training takes over and sends the iron bar smoothly up and into his face with a  _crack_ , and then back down to crash into the second man’s shoulder with a sound like a hammer hitting meat. John occasionally forgets he was a soldier, but his body remembers and it’s a relief to give over to it.  
     Blood sprays onto his sweater but he’s past noticing. The first man is down and not moving, the second is cursing and clutching at his broken collarbone. Sebastian hasn’t moved, although there’s an alley waiting for him, and John wavers between checking the men for guns, a weapon he’s achingly familiar with, and perhaps letting Sebastian disappear, and taking his chances with the iron bar.  
     The rebar wins, mostly because a quick glance doesn’t show him the distinctive bulge of weaponry beneath their clothes, and he throws himself down the street, bar raised to strike as soon as he gets close. 

 

Seb doesn’t move. He’s gone loose, waiting for John to close the distance and make the first attack, waiting for the fight to start. Jim lets out a huff. He would be annoyed if it wasn’t so  _funny_. Leave it to Seb to play with his food. There’s no sound on his feed, obviously, but it’s not hard to tell what Seb’s saying as he smiles at John, dodging the first blow.  
     “Hello there, Captain. Nice day for it.”  
     He dances backwards out of John’s reach and into the main street, and the other obstacle grinds to a halt not ten feet away. These two are  _actually_ cops, albeit old friends of Jim who are technically off-duty, and they flash their lights, jumping out of the car to try to intervene. Seb uses the moment to start running, again, and Jim leans forward, watching close to see Johnny’s next move.

 

      John, swinging after Sebastian a second time, is carried out into the main street after him. Sebastian is laughing, moving easily, not even drawing a weapon or bothering to look concerned; John registers, in the back of his head, that’s he’s very handsome. He’s not really that surprised Moriarty keeps him around, all muscle and and anger and tousled blond hair.  
     When the cops get in his way John doesn’t even hesitate. He doesn’t want to kill them, or really even hurt them badly, just get them out of his  way because he is so  close to getting his hands on Moran. One of them he jabs firmly in the diaphragm, hearing the air go out of her with a grunt; the other one he punches in the nose with enough force to break it, but not enough to drive it into her skull. It’s over so quickly there’s not time to feel anything or consider the consequences, but as he pelts after Sebastian John half-wonders if Mycroft has been checking on his CCTV feeds today, if maybe help is following along behind. 

 

      Jim pops a piece of gum into his mouth and chews happily, watching Captain John Watson assault two police officers. The camera mounted on the car’s dash gives him (and all those lovely boys at the Yard) a front row seat as they go down, one with a spray of blood. Then Johnny’s running again and Jim sighs, flicking his monitor off. They’re about to run out of his coverage area, anyway, and Jim’s cutting time short as it is. There’ll be somebody from Iceman Inc. at his door in a few minutes, and by then he has to be gone.  
     The set-up is easy enough to break down. Each monitor has an electromagnet inside as a matter of course, and he flips a central switch that turns them all into so much plastic and metal. His chair is wiped down, his personal effects gathered, and he walks out. As he goes, the security cameras in the main hallway twist to look at him and he waggles his fingers. Maybe the Iceman will catch on sooner, rather than later, but he’s already a block away before the firebomb goes off, taking out at least a floor of that hotel.  
     He isn’t exactly going for subtle with this.  
     The next base is a much dingier part of town unfortunately, one with far fewer cameras, but the set up is a little nicer. This one has a proper leather desk chair for him, and he sits down in it with a sigh, perhaps fifteen minutes after he left the last place. “Where  _are_ you, Seb?” he wonders, calling up the program that follows the Colonel’s tracking chip. “Where have you led our Johnny now?”

 

    John is beginning to regret not picking a gun up off one of the police officers, or taking the time to find his own twenty minutes ago, because he could have easily brought down Moran from the distance that separates them now. They’ve both slowed down to a fast trot, John by necessity and Sebastian, he assumes, so as not to draw attention to himself--and he doesn’t recognize the streets--mostly alleys and sideways and passages between buildings--that they’re travelling through now. He keeps looking for something he can  _throw_ , but the gutters are exasperatingly free of the usual rubbish and the other man isn’t stupid enough to pass by another construction site.   
    Rounding a corner, he sees Moran vanish into what is apparently the back door of a featureless building that nonetheless seems vaguely familiar; John slows, softens his footsteps, tries to quiet his breathing, and edges towards the door with rebar held high. He wouldn’t put it past Jim’s -- what? his employee? his hitman? his lover? and who would love Moriarty? -- to be waiting just inside with a knife or a gun.  
    As soon as he steps inside and sees Sebastian standing near a bloodied chair, John knows exactly where he is. The bile rises up in the back of his throat and he screams, wordless, and Moran laughs. 

 

    Seb’s just had time to flip the feed on, wink at the camera, and go over to the chair when Johnny  s _cream_ s. It’s not even a word, just a  _howl_ and  _thank god_ Jim’s recording this, because that noise will not just burn out Sherlock’s heart, it will tear his  _soul_ _._ There’s nothing sane in that noise and Jim is actually  _laughing_ , which he hasn’t done in a  _very_ long time. Seb’s laughing too, bless him, and Jim wonders for a moment if he should be. Johnny’s a real moron and a few other things besides, but right now Jim thinks that the main descriptor for the good doctor is  _dangerous._  
    Then John’s moving again and, oh, it’s just too good. Jim screen-captures a shot of John (face twisted and broken, wielding the rebar like a club) and sends it out into the web -- to Harry, to the Iceman, to Lestrade, to anyone who could pass it on -- with a caption. _Poor Johnny is having a bad day. _ Then he turns back to the feed, eager to see what might happen.  
    Because, of course, the thing about that building is that it’s not just an empty arena. There are the cameras, obviously, John can’t miss those, but there is also a tray filled with various medical implements. Nothing sharp, nothing cutting, just the things that Jim had used earlier that same day. Needles and thread, mostly. A heavy sedative and syringe. A box of plastic gloves... oh, he can’t remember everything he left.   
    What’s important is that Johnny have options. After all, a growing boy like that? He can’t just stick to one medium. Dulls the imagination.  
    That is, of course,  _if_ he manages to take out Seb. Which Jim isn’t counting on.

 

    This time, the blow hits.  
    John thinks, maybe, that Sebastian was never expecting him to able to do it, but there’s the iron slamming into Moran’s side with all of John’s strength behind it, cutting off his laugh mid-breath. The taller man stumbles into the chair, which goes skids off into the wall, and then recovers himself. John registers as they circle each other that there are cameras everywhere, that Jim is probably watching, and figures there must be traps hidden all around him. He keeps to the cleared section of floor, still bloodstained, and Sebastian doesn’t attempt to leave it either, just moves like a tiger around John, eyes sparking with anger.   
    “Moriarty!” yells John, to the air. “I will kill him, I swear I will, and then I will hunt you down, if I have to burn down London and chase you through the streets to do it! I know you can hear me!”  
    He swings the bar towards Sebastian’s head, and for the moment he is nothing but the rage that has carried him this far. 

 

  
    Seb goes down  _hard_.  
    Jim knows from experience how much the man can take, how bloody resilient he is, but that  _really_ had to hurt. He can see the line of bruising already starting along Seb’s back, blue-black and following the shape of the bar. Oh, there’s  _probably_ nothing broken, but Col. Moran will not be getting back up for some time yet.  
    When Jim sees him again, if he ever does, there’s going to have to be some sort of reward for all of this.  
    Meanwhile, he’s still glued to the feed. With one hand he’s calling up the contact in his phone marked  _Emergency Intervention_ which goes directly to the higher-ups in the Yard. No need to dial them just yet, but if Johnny decides to get creative he’ll have to mount a rescue of some sort. His other hand is, he realizes, kneading the arm of his chair because this is  _blazingly_ hot, this is glorious, and he’s going to have to file it all away for later use.   
    “Will you kill him, Johnny?” Jim asks, and  _oooh, husky voice, must save that_. “I don’t think you will... but let’s see. Let’s see how much you’ll burn.”

 

    Sebastian straightens and half-turns barely in time to turn the blow, taking it full across the muscles and bones of his upper back. He goes down like a tree falling, one shoulder dislocated, and when that shoulder hits the ground he makes a noise somewhere between a scream and a groan, and goes limp. John Watson stands, gasping, and isn’t sorry. It’s not like he’s dead; John can see his chest, the white shirt dragged sideways, rise and fall. He’s just unconscious. That’s all.  
     But it’s not enough. He feels the explosion move through him again, knocking him to the ground, and doesn’t look back because he knows, he  _knows_ what he will see behind him where Baker Street should be, the fire blooming, Mrs. Hudson still inside--He kicks Moran, hard, in the ribs he’s already broken, but the man doesn’t react, barely moves, and then John steps down hard on his kneecap and still nothing happens and it’s not  _fucking_ enough.  
     He looks around, still gripping the iron bar but not quite able to smash Sebastian’s head in like he’d be aiming for. John needs to hurt him because in hurting him, he hurts Moriarty, but as it turns out, it’s Jim he needs to kill.  
     On the table near the chair there is a surgical tray. He’s almost sure it wasn’t there before but John doesn’t quite trust his memory anymore; he’s missing almost the entire run to here from Baker Street, doesn’t even remember how the night passed except for his phone buzzing, unstoppable, in his hand.  
     Before he know what he is doing, John is on his knees next to Sebastian, needle and thread in his hands, sitting so still he feels as if he has turned to stone, the minutes ticking by. This will be the first time he has ever used these tools to harm. 

 

     Oh  _god_ yes. Jim is nearly out of his seat, almost wanting to climb  inside the monitor and see this up close, but he dials  _Emergency Intervention_ anyway. In a hushed voice he tells them that there’s a man _torturing_ someone in this warehouse, he’s  _sewing_ on him, he has a  _gun_ ,  please come  _help_. Then he hangs up. They should be there in maybe... ten minutes? John won’t have gotten far by then.  
     Then, hands steady, Jim undoes his belt. It’s a very nice belt, all of Jim’s clothes are nice, and he runs it appreciatively through his hands before cinching it around his right leg. Tighter.  _Tighter_ _,_ until he’s gasping in pain, until he can feel the blood drain from his face.  
     Perfect. He could probably do this without physical crutches, but Johnny really needs to  _believe_.  
     When he’s sure that he’s pale enough, he hits the button that starts the feed up on his end as well. The big monitor in the warehouse flicks on, and he says in the smallest, most hopeless voice he can manage, “Seb.  Don’t. Please, John, don’t do this.”

 

      Jim looks like there is no blood left in him when John looks up. Sebastian has just groaned under his hands, which, he finds, are not shaking, and John yanks the thread hard, hoping he feels it. Hoping they both feel it. There was a sedative on the tray but he wants this to hurt as much as it possibly can. He has already sewn two of Moran’s fingers together, the hand he can tell that the unconscious man uses to shoot, and now, sure that Jim is watching, he starts on a third.  
     “Why?” he asks, voice as steady and calm as his hands, and he doesn’t look up. “You killed Sherlock, or tried. Why shouldn’t I hurt him, as much as you’ve hurt me?” John wipes away the blood that is welling up, surgically precise, and throws the gauze to the side. There is already a small pile. (He doesn’t know how long he’s been doing this, how quickly or slowly he took up the needle and thread, and he finds he is not interested in the answer.) His jumper is on the ground--the warehouse is hot, now--and he’s sweating.

 

     It’s a very good question, and Jim has to think for a moment, pulling the belt even tighter just offscreen, before he can come up with a suitably dull response. “He... he’s never done anything to you. He’s not a part of this, just a hired gun, no one of importance. It’s  _me_ you want, Johnny, not him.” He makes his breath hitch and bites down  _hard_ on his tongue, letting the tears well up like they’re supposed to.  
     The needle moves to the fourth finger, the  _trigger_ finger, and for posterity (because Seb will almost certainly demand to see this down the line) that’s when he starts to beg. “Please, John, don’t. I’ll... anything, I’ll do anything, meet you anywhere you like, but please, stop.”  
     Of course, John  _won’t_. That’s half the fun. And the police are on their way already, sirens silent because he’d mentioned the magic words,  _gun_ and  _hostage_. Tick tock, he thinks, watching the feed. And won’t the Yard be interested to see the mad blogger of the master criminal Sherlock Holmes, torturing a fellow Ex-Army officer with a spotless record?  
     It’s either laugh or cry, and Jim lets the tears fall.

 

     “Bullshit,” says John, voice cracking like the retort of a gun. “Bullshit he’s not important. I saw the phone. I saw  _everything_ ,  Moriarty. I told you I would burn your heart and you didn’t listen.” He finishes the fourth finger, sits back on his heels, shoves his hair out of his face. A streak of blood follows his hand and John wonders, distantly, what he must look like, whether his face is calm or angry or nothing, nothing at all.  
     _I will meet you anywhere._ John looks down at Moran, who is just beginning to stir in earnest, and strikes him hard across the face. “You come here. I’m tired of chasing you. No tricks. No traps. No snipers, no semtex, nothing but you, here, in fifteen minutes or I’ll do worse than this, I swear.”  
     When he looks back up Moriarty is weeping, and in that one blazing, white-hot moment, John knows he’s won. 

 

He wants to wait just a  little  longer, he really does, but when John makes eye contact there’s this look of triumph and Jim can’t help it anymore. He turns off the recorder, buries his face in his hands, draws a deep breath, and when he looks back up, he’s smiling.  
     “Oh, the  _phone_. Isn’t it wonderful? It took me simply  ages. Turns out I needn’t have bothered. I was going to use it on someone so much more...  _perceptive_ than you, originally.  
     “Tell me, Johnny. What do you plan to do to our poor Colonel? Best make sure it’s quick, whatever it is. According to my cameras, the cops are  _just_ turning onto this block right now, and, well, I’m sending videos of all of this to them, to the news networks... but mostly to your dear Holmes brothers.  I  _had_ hoped you’d make it just a little longer, hold onto that fabled ‘moral integrity’ of yours until dear old Sherlock could be here to see you, but he’ll have to make do with the highlights reel. Which, right now, is going up on youtube.”  
     He loosens the belt and takes a breath, wiping his eyes. “Oh, look at me, getting all emotional.  Just never you mind.” He flicks his wrist and inflects his voice exactly the way Mrs. Hudson would, and then winks at John.

 

     When Jim looks back up, he’s smiling, and John flashes back, suddenly, to the moment in the pool when Moriarty walked back in the door with the same bright, manic grin smeared across his face, right when they thought they were safe.  _Sherlock_ , he thinks, inanely; it’s the only thing he can think as Jim grandstands, explaining his plan, just like the last time.  
     The blood is soaking into the knees of his jeans. Sebastian, finally awake enough to move, his movements slow but his pain-narrowed eyes as pleased and gleeful as Jim’s, rolls away from him and into a crouch. John can’t move. He can’t. It doesn’t matter that he can hear doors slamming outside the warehouse or that his phone in his back pocket will not stop going off or that now Moran is laughing again, even as he bends over his bleeding hand and loosely-hanging arm, and Jim looks like a cobra who has finally struck.  
     Nothing matters.  
     _Sherlock._  
     He doesn’t even realize that he says it out loud. 

 

     “That’s right, honey.  _Sherlock_. He’s coming, oh he’s coming to rescue you just as fast as he can. But we both know it’s too late, don’t we?” Jim tilts his head, faking concern. “I just don’t know what he’ll do, finding you like this.”  
     The recorder’s long-off, has been since he started grinning, and Jim is tired of pretending. He’s won, and it was  easy , and it’s time to clean up, now. “Seb, stop giggling. You’ve been tortured, don’t forget. Make sure to give those lovely people at the Yard the whole story.”  
     Seb nods, still looking more than a little groggy, and Jim palms the controls to the feed. Time to go. He really should have  _planned_ better, Sherlock should have  _seen_ this, and he’s already disgusted, unsatisfied.  
     “Bye-bye, Johnny. I’m very proud of you. Welcome to the family.” And with that he flicks off the two-way feed. No need to say anything else.

 

      When they break down the door John is still kneeling there, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Sebastian, crouching nearby and examining his hand with a foul look on his face, drops instantly and bonelessly to the ground right next to John just before the first policeman is through the door, apparently unconscious, left hand flung out, right one conspicuously resting on his chest. John notices, faintly impressed, that Moran has been pressing the bloodied fingers to his shirt so that everything looks much, much worse than it is.  
     Not that it’s not already bad. Not that his life isn’t already over. Sherlock’s name beats through him like a drum, and he can’t hear the yelling that he knows must be surrounding him, just watches as someone he doesn’t recognize helps Sebastian up, kneeling at the center of a whirlwind.  
     “John.”  
     Lestrade is standing a safe distance away from him. They all are. Like they don’t know him, like he is some wild thing that in a moment they will throw a net over and tackle to the floor. John shivers, and finds he doesn’t care.

 

     There are people swarming all over Baker Street, officers who wear black and worry about bombs, who get sent in to pick up  _bits_ after an explosion, and by the time they are done half of them will have cameras stored in their packs, wiring that shouldn’t be there, will never be there again. One will have a phone, miraculously still intact, which Jim will be holding again within three hours. This is a matter of course, but Jim still has to check in to make sure things are going smoothly.  
     In a heavily-protected corner of the Internet, people are arguing angrily about CCTV feeds and trying to track the mysterious hacking back to its source. Jim, who is also Jim-from-IT, is reading their discussion with some interest, chiming in with evidence whenever they get too close to something important. The evidence is all true, of course, but they can’t be trusted to see it for themselves, so he has to make sure they follow the wrong leads instead of the right ones.  
     So Jim is only paying a little attention to the feed, really. He’s tuned in just long enough to see all the old gang,  _Greg, he must try Greg next_ , standing around Johnny before he looks away again, multitasking as quickly as possible. He doesn’t have a great deal of time, the Iceman cometh and all that. Timing is still key.  
     And then one voice cuts through everything and he’s thrown aside his phone, he’s closed the chatroom window, he is actually grasping the screen of his monitor and gaping, gleefully, at the scene inside.  
     “ _John_ _,_ ” the voice says, cutting through the clamour, and it is Christmas and birthdays and the best plan ever.

 

      It takes him a minute to realize that it wasn’t Lestrade who spoke, wasn’t Donovan, wasn’t any of the people standing in a half-circle around him. John hears someone drop into a crouch beside him, sees out of the corner of his eye a black coat, and then there is a hand on his shoulder.  
     “John.” Again, and this time he knows the voice and it hits him like a blow to the belly. _I just don’t know what he’ll do, finding you like this._ When John turns to look, everyone within a ten-foot radius starts backwards, or goes for their gun.  
     Everyone, that is, but Sherlock. 

 

     Jim is squealing with joy because their  _faces_ ,  their faces are so  _broken_ and he’s  _done it_. Oh, it is too  good,  and he needs Seb back here right now because  _god damn_.  
     Sherlock touches Johnny’s shoulder like it’s dangerous, like he’s hesitant, like John is  _on fire_ , and for once his face isn’t that awful blank calmness that mocks Jim when he’s asleep. No, now Sherlock looks...  
     Sherlock looks like...  
     Oh, Jim’s never been very good at emotions, really, not ones that he hasn’t studied, but he can tell this one  _isn’t good_. He takes a screen capture and watches, forgetting everything else, as Sherlock uses his gloved right hand to move the needle away, move the rebar, subtly disturbing the scene of the crime in the name of getting the weapons away from Johnny.  
     “ _John, I’m here_ ,” his speakers say, and Jim’s recording this and playing it every day for the rest of his life because  _nothing_ could be better.

 

      Sherlock looks like he is grasping for his balance, even though he does not so much as stagger, and John is faintly intrigued to notice that it is, in fact, possible for Sherlock to go even whiter. He is moving slowly, almost gently, never lifting his hand from John's shoulder, using his foot to nudge the surgery tray, until the immediate area is empty of everything but blood. Everything is still again, and quiet, and John wonders if this is what it's like to be Moriarty, to feel nothing at all in the middle of a war.  
     There is the scuff-slip of shoes on wet concrete, and then Sherlock is taking up his entire field of vision, still crouching, so John has nowhere else to look but at him.  
     "I'm here," he says. "John. Are you alright?" His voice is steady but his eyes are yawning open, pale blue, pupils all the way dilated.  
     John is having trouble remaining present and he doesn't remember lifting his hands from his lap, but suddenly Sherlock's forehead is hard-pressed against his own and his fingers are leaving bloodied prints on the back of Sherlock's neck and the collar of his coat. He feels, rather than sees, Lestrade jerk forward, senses Sherlock flinging up an arm to ward him off. The two of them sit, the two of them breathe, and John doesn't even know that he's been talking until he hears himself say Moriarty.  
     Sherlock looks up and away, and John just sits and watches the line of his throat as he swallows down something that might have been a sob.  
     "You have to get up, John," says Sherlock, and there is no interlude before he is standing, clinging to one of Sherlock's hands, a long black coat settling down, heavy as sorrow, over his shoulders.

 

     Always with the coat. It’s so  _symbolic_ that it’s sickening, and the high’s already fading again. Jim sneers at the screen, wanting nothing more than to be there, to be able to  _talk_ to them, to Sherlock, to do just a little more gloating, to take  _credit_ for that mess of broken thoughts that used to be Dr. John Watson. He’s actually fingering the switch that would start up the feed when his perimeter alarms start to go off, the images on his screen replaced by a map with flashing red lights.  
     There’s a moment where he’s  _livid_ , ready to  _scream_ , but he bites it back. “Oh dear,” he sighs, disconnecting the flashdrive with the recorded video on it. No chance he’s leaving that behind. “It seems Big Brother is here to spoil the fun. I’ll have to catch you boys later.”  
     Phone in hand, Jim flicks the electromagnets on and walks over to the window, clambering through onto the rusty balcony outside. The Iceman’s lackeys will have to go slowly to avoid his little pitfalls, if they even manage to do so. Plenty of time to be off and away.

 

      Sherlock keeps a careful grip on John, staying a little behind so that he doesn't have to see the man's face, the blood that covers his hands and soaks into his trousers. He is no stranger to blood; he can tell from the patterns and spatters how much of it belongs to John, how long ago the blood was spilled and how many wounds it came from, and, given a little time, Sherlock could say with pinpoint accuracy which of it was shed in violence.  
     For the first time in years, he purposefully avoids deduction. There is no satisfaction in it.  
     It takes twenty minutes to get John over to and into the waiting police car. The hostage negotiator wants to drag or carry him, but Donovan, moving fast, grabs him by the collar and drags him to the corner, hissing stiff-shouldered too low for Sherlock to hear. When Greg returns from checking in with the Yard, Donovan is standing near the door, arms crossed over her chest, watching them. The negotiator has vanished into some dark hole where, Sherlock spares a moment to hope, he will remain.  
     "I'm sorry I can't give you any time with him, Sherlock," says Lestrade, as John takes another step, and stops, and takes another. The detective's hair is greyer than it was two and a half years ago, and he is thinner, although equally expansive in his moments and his manner. He is still living alone, but he's gotten a dog, a big one, fawn-colored. Sherlock looks away, looks at the broken line of John's shoulders.  
     "Yes," he says. "You're bending three different rules just to let me do this, I understand. I appreciate it, Inspector." Together, they get John up the three steps to street level.  
     This is not the homecoming Sherlock wanted. He had expected, yes, a modicum of pain, been prepared for John's fist hard against his cheekbones, had his story all lined up to tell and his excuses all ready to be made.  There would be a row, and then John would storm out and come back fifteen minutes later carrying several bottles of very bad wine, and they would get noisily drunk and at some point, Sherlock would put his arms around John and suddenly everything would be alright. He had left his heart behind so that it would be safe, and planned on coming back to find it whole and beating.  
     Instead he puts a hand on John's hair, so that he will not hit his head, and eases him down into the car, and presses closed the door until it locks.  
     Sherlock turns away, and goes to call his brother.

 

      Mycroft ushers Anthea out and closes the door to his office in the Diogenes Club before he answers the phone. The precautions are hardly necessary, but some things demand the utmost privacy.  
     “Sherlock.”  
     “Mycroft. Where are you?”  
     “Diogenes Club. Reading the preliminary report on Baker Street.”  
     A short silence. “What happened at Baker Street?”  
     Mycroft pauses, taken aback. “A POMZ-2M, mounted behind the television. It looks as though your Mrs. Hudson was caught in the blast.” He clears his throat. “Obviously, the result...”  
     “Was fatal. Yes.” There is a sound like a hand being run over a face. “I’ve been at the warehouse at Gower Mews. With Lestrade. You know what happened already, of course.”  
     “Of course. The videos are... very thorough.” And damning, he thinks but does not add.  
     “They would be.” Sherlock clears his throat. “It was Moriarty. You told me John would be safe from him.”  
     “Yes.” Mycroft’s mouth is dry, and he searches for words. Now, after long years of political campaigning, they fail him. “I am sorry, brother.”  
     “Can you help him?”  
     “I can see to it that he gets the very best representation and treatment. I do not think we will have to worry about a trial.” Not in his current condition.  
     If John keeps his mind that long. “No.” He shifts. “Mycroft.”  
     “Yes.” Mycroft moves to look out the window, focusing on his brother’s voice.  
     “I have nowhere to go.” The words are dragging out of Sherlock.  
     “You do.” He says it softly, as kindly as he can manage. “I’m sending some men round for your things. I’ll need you to work from here, for a while.”  
     “I won’t be leaving again.” Not while John--no. “But then, you’ve worked that out already.”  
     “Nor should you. From here you will have access to the best equipment in the kingdom. Which, I daresay, you’ll want for what you have in mind.”  
     Sherlock looks around at the cameras, the monitors, the wires, and is very cold. “Less want, brother, than need.”  
     The pause goes on. “Sherlock. If you should require any assistance.”  
     A laugh that has no humor in it. “I have no one else to call.”  
     Hm. “We will find him.” He does not mention the hotel, the block of flats, the special forces operatives that will not be receiving care ever again. There will be time for that.  
     Sherlock says nothing. There is nothing left to say, and after a moment he shuts the phone, drops his hand.  
     Outside the window London is too bright, and Mycroft closes his eyes.


End file.
